


Let the gods speak softly of us

by calerine



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calerine/pseuds/calerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ohno likes it best when Aiba’s like this.</i> An in the works AU in which Matsujun is the DJ on the radio and Nino and Aiba play baseball and Ohno makes arty things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the gods speak softly of us

**Author's Note:**

> For Natalie. I miss you bb. Title from Ezra Pound's [Greek].

Ohno likes it best when Aiba’s like this – slick-skinned and sweaty, exhausted from baseball practice, his uniform sticking to him like a second skin, with reddened hands that Ohno reaches out and soothes his palm over.

They’re laying on the couch together, waiting for Nino to finish rinsing mud from his jacket and listening to the running water, to his quiet, breathy mumbling. Aiba’s thrown his arms over the headrests, his elbows close enough for Ohno to lean back against if he wanted to. On the radio, AKB’s latest single is playing but turned down so low that Ohno can hear Nino’s grumbling over it, and he’s listening carefully when Aiba says “I think we can win this one.”

His voice is low, hushed, and Ohno can’t help remembering the last time he watched one of their practices and Aiba had made a homerun so fast that he'd skidded on his chest for at least two metres before he came to a halt. Nino hasn't stopped complaining about those grass stains.

So Ohno squeezes Aiba’s fingers with a hope he doesn’t know how to articulate, holding on for a second longer than necessary and Aiba exhales a huge gust that leaves a giggle in the bubble of his throat. Ohno lets him lean over until his shadow overcasts his experimental bottlecap thing. He hasn’t decided what it is exactly or what he wants to do yet - but in the afternoon sun, the edges of the metal caps send sunlight blinking against the open window and he knows Aiba’s transfixed.

The water in the bathroom stops running and immediately the world takes on a ringing silence that eats away at Matsujun’s voice crackling through the static. They call this his DJ voice, all slow and careful, professional poise and enunciated words - unlike when he’s over for dinner and drinks too much and falls asleep on their ratty couch with his voice dwindling, rubbing in his chest like sandpaper, then soaked into the night.

“Aiba, tell Oh-chan about Okada,” Nino orders when he emerges from the shower. He’s naked from waist up, skinny chest and thin ribs giving way to the gentle swell of his beer belly. Ohno feels his chest filling up, the thickness clogging his throat incomprehensible and difficult. He always forgets how many years it has been.

“Okada-kun can’t make it till probably after the fifth inning,” Aiba recounts obediently. “Was it his niece?” He looks to Nino for confirmation, opening his arms for him and pulling Nino close when he obliges.

Nino nods. He tugs fingers through Aiba’s hair, made thin by idol-hood, laying open-mouthed kisses behind his ears while he settles decidedly between Aiba and Ohno.

Nino likes Aiba when he’s like this too.

“What are you making?” Nino asks.

“Not sure yet,” Ohno replies, giving himself over to Nino’s fingers curling around a wrist and pulling a bottle cap from his grasp.

“A musical instrument,” Aiba quips, already falling asleep in his dirty uniform, body sinking into the couch. There’s been a grass-tinged stain on his side for as long as Ohno can remember anyway. “Then Nino could play his solo on it in next year’s concerts.”

“Contemporary art,” Ohno chuckles. Nino tucks his cold damp feet into his lap, wriggling his toes when Ohno slides his hands over his soles.

Through the speakers, Matsujun’s speaking about a seasonal sale at a furniture store, and it occurs to Ohno in a strange abstract way that his mother could use a new sewing machine.

But this is another space, as if snipped out from time, laid bare in another reality entirely. Aiba sprawled out on the other side of the couch, sun-filled, limp and affectionate and Nino drowsy, sharp angles made soft, his feet pressed into Ohno’s belly, the thoughts of baseball victory hazy in the distance.

“Wake me up at dinnertime,” Aiba mumbles, drifting, drifting.

Ohno hums, counts to thirty-seven until they’re both fast asleep.


End file.
